


gold artifice

by moon_opals



Series: family tree [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: And Then Some, Angst and Feels, F/M, Old Love, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Scrooge and Goldie duck in that old cabin again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Scrooge returns to his Klondike cabin and finds more than gold waiting for him.





	gold artifice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donaldtheduckdad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=donaldtheduckdad).



> Bedroom Hymns is a really good song to start with. Thank you, Florence.

Scrooge crouched on the porch of the one room cabin. He wore a moderately thick fur coat that gripped his flesh in prickly warmth. He wrapped his feet in dirtied cloth. This was appropriate attire for the month. Winter’s remains chilled April’s wind, leaving it wanting. With another sigh he watched the sun’s descent and observed the moon’s ascent into a darkened sky. This was the start of the night Scrooge refused to abandon to time. (He didn’t know this, but he was going to.) As he sat in solitude, the question he avoided since his arrival reared its head back at him, and he inhaled weakly, shoulders slagging.

 _Why?_ He was a man desperate for adventure. He thrived on the rush of adrenaline pounding through his blood vessels, and he relished discovery’s delivery every time he outwitted a foe, or earned gold’s glory. Adventure and money. Very simple terms. Very tired terms. He stared ahead into the wilderness, forsaken by man, forgotten by man, and questioned his return.

The Klondike wilderness crystallized beauty in a tundra like fall. It haunted him, stirring restlessly in his dreams, and as much as it pained him to admit it, there was nothing left for him. He collected all his debts. He paid off the few loans he had taken out. He protected and emptied every claim attached to his name. His enemies - debaucherous, greedy, cruel, had died of old age or illness or another unknown reason. Hours ahead the Dawson city glimmered weakly, a pale, forgotten ghost of its former self. This was inevitable. This was an unspoken fact all who lived there knew and accepted and prepared for when the last of the gold was found, taken, and ushered discreetly out of town.

His coveted gold nugget, a true testament of the age, was sealed a million miles away in his money bin. Scrooge lowered his head. He understood why he had returned. Each step was made of nostalgia, of an uneasy desire he was unable to understand. Staring about in the quietness, blanketed under a star touched sky, he was made aware of the running stream below, the animalistic chitter and growls roaming in the distance. Their agreement was active. He did not hunt them, and in exchange, they did not hunt him. His bean storage in the cabin’s cramped compartment was good for another twenty years. Tomorrow morning he’d prepare a bean breakfast and head back to the airport.

His embittered frown spat, “Bless me bagpipes, why did Ae’ come back ‘ere?” Comfortable silence told him why, and he shook his head, frown pestering into a steady scowl. With his truth and lies swirling around him, he had accepted his true reasons far long before he stepped onto the plane. He had ignored Duckworth’s pointed stares, somehow reading him truer than Scrooge had in some time, and said nothing when instructed to remain in town at the local hotel. While camping was not despised, of the two Duckworth preferred comfort over inexpensive choices. He planned to meet his companion tomorrow evening, and sleep at the foot of his bed of the room he had booked for them.

“Wot a fool,” he said, standing on his feet. He ignored the ambiguous pops of his knees and crinkle of his spine. He rested a hand on the curve where pain had a habit of resonating at, and pulled back for a crack to snap into the night time air. Silence rippled in agitation; a gentle reminder that nothing stays still for an extended period of time. Scrooge glared back at the moon, at the trees, at the steady stream, and turned his back to it all, retreating to his cabin’s dismal comfort.

He sensed a change the moment he turned. His cabin was contaminated for reasons he did not know. He surveyed the walls, kitchen table, stove, somewhat rusted, somewhat busted. Obvious changes were minimal. The mouse scurrying across the floor had dark brown fur, a contrast to the grey mouse he recalled during his years. He had liked the mouse, was fond of it. The mouse stopped three inches in front him raising its tiny head, and sniffed the air, squeaking with what Scrooge prescribed distaste and disappeared down a hole in one of the floorboards. (Being unable to communicate in human language, the mouse warning’s fell on confused ears. It too sensed another entity in the cabin, something strange, something surreal, something that could not be seen. The mouse squeaked its warning and scurried irritably, already making its escape.)

He might have questioned the mouse’s unusually intense stare. He might have wondered why did it pause to sniff the air and rolled its tiny, little head in discomfort. Scrooge did not question. He did not wonder. He scowled and marched to his hard bed on the other side of the cabin. He relished in silence’s realm, despite its brief interlude, and bundled up for a warm night, resting on his side. April’s warm, chilled temperature guided him steadfast, far faster than Morpheus’ touch, which held the potential of creating a rift in their usually amicable relationship.

Drifting off to sleep was simple. He felt a flutter beneath his eyelids, the sweet drumming of slumber opening its arms to him. He was on the river. A great, wide river on a steamboat, riding towards a city made of lights and hurricanes. He was just a boy. Not yet thirteen. His whiskers hadn’t fully grown, and down in the boiler was a lanky, clumsy yet genius man doing his best to assist him in his race. (This man’s brilliance and kindness appealed to Scrooge in such a way that he later hired him for his company. His impression struck a chord in him, not simply his brilliance but ingenuity, creativity. Everything he created was simply good. He could not fathom, years and years and years later that his grandson shared his brilliance, but not...his goodness.)

He dreamt, peacefully, happily, and there were no disturbances. His dream was slim and elongated, stretching to the furthest reaches of his subconscious. He had pushed much away, had relished in others, and as the dream reached its climax, Blackheart Beagle was on the end tails of their rest, something tipped in the opposite direction. Scrooge sensed this indistinct change while he tried to turn the steamboat’s direction, and grunted in aggravation, seemingly understanding what was happening. The dream’s tendrils, which was what Morpheus used to connect his dreams to the brain stem (something unknown to most medical professionals, not that Scrooge blamed them. Why should they suspect a supernatural phenomenon associated to such a mundane event?), started to fray and frazzle. The dreams vivid colors and shapes began to distort, twisting them, mishappening them. There was no time to stop it or even attempt to regain control, and his fingers slipped away from the wheel. He started to float.

He woke up. “Curse me kilts,” he groaned, still on his side. “If yer gonna stab me, make sure it it isn’t in the neck.” His return to sleep was going to have to wait. That made him a little sad. He was fond of the dream, and the memories connected to it, and the victory and destruction he may have left in his wake. He earned much more than money on that day. He shook his dream off his shoulders and mumbled that if she was going to kill him, if this was how she was going to do it (since he had no cash or gold or treasure or anything of value on him), she better make it quick. He didn’t want a prolonged death, and Duckworth was waiting for him.

“Scroogey, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” He didn’t question how she snuck in the cabin without him noticing, and when she appeared out of the shadows, he didn’t ask how she maneuvered to stay there in silence for as long as she did. Her narrowed his stare at her shape, suspecting there was more to her appearance than she wanted him to know, but he rolled on his other side, pulling half of the blanket to the side, an invitation he half-expected her to decline out of stubborness. In the pale moonlight he saw her smirk, disruptive and challenging and bold and warning, and she slunk beside him wrapping an arm around his waist that made his stomach tumble in painful knots.

Without artificial light illuminating the cabin, he relied on the moon. He turned on his back, arm reaching around her shoulder, and was relieved when she rested her head on his chest. He examined her hair and eyes and cheeks, curious as to what had changed since they had last laid eyes on each other. Her hair was the same gold blond it was the day they met in the Blackjack Saloon, but it had grown about six inches. She had abandoned her jeweled hair pin and the sharp flipped hairstyle, and so, her hair fell like a waiting stream pass her shoulders. He blamed the light for the way her emerald broiled stare, deeper than any gem he had ever seen, held him still in their now shared bed. He was not one to be one upped. He forced his beak to scowl even when it didn’t feel like scowling.

“How long were yew’ waitin’ fer me?” He asked.

She shrugged, “Not long. Pandemonium portals are top notch. An hour for you is three seconds for me."

“And yew were there for wot?”

“It was their Fecundance Festival.”

“And yew participated in the festivities, or -,”

“It made getting into their fire opal inventory very, very, very easy,” she grinned. “And before you scold me,” she procured a sample piece from her back pocket, “they are absolutely divine.” Scrooge winced. An orange tint flowed over the miniature stone, colored in bleeding red and other multifaceted colors. He noted violet, yellow, pink, all in pastel shades making them difficult to determine at a casual glance. Her mischievous grin elongated in a steep curve on her face, and her eyes pinched together, delighting in his poorly disguised envy. He coveted the fire opals of Pandemonium, marveling at the swirling embers inside. He tilted his head, reverting to his scowl, and bit back with a reminder the Pandemoniums utilized starfire in their tools. He was curious at which point during the festival she had acquired their treasured jewels.

“I didn’t take everything. Just the best ones,” Goldie defended, gazing lovingly at her minor sample, indicating the best ones (as in the ones bejeweled into the Imperial Crown of Pandemonium, reserved for its current Empress). “And they had no right about boasting of their defenses. I’m sure the Demogorgonan troops will be pleased to hear about this.”

“Ae don’t think pleased is the word we’re looking for right now.” Their conversation didn’t need to descend into a history lesson of the millenia standing feud between the Pandemonium and Demogorgona forces. “Outraged, furious, ready to blame anything and anyone. Ae don’t want to imagine the carnage yew’ve released into their dimension.”

Goldie frowned, almost offended. The glitter in her stare told him otherwise, and she huffed against his chest, spilling cool breath over his feathers. “If they want to start another war over little ol’ me, I won’t stop them,” one feather stood out of the rest, and she latched onto it, curling it around her finger, “and I won’t let them get their fire opals back. Beautiful, shimmering, you do know their opals are submerged in volcanic waters of Magmortar? It’s what creates the embers inside, always scratching to get out.” She hummed, satisfied with her recent adventure, “Absolutely delightful.”

“It is until Magmortar erupts, which for your future reference, happens every three minutes,” idle conversation was different, not entirely new between them. There were moments, never times in their relationship, where they discussed casual, non-adventure subjects, and though this was not one of those moments, the familiarity was there. He had nothing to give. Not tonight. She had nothing to take. Not tonight. They sensed this night didn’t depend on give and take, or discover and theft, and she cuddled into his side, waiting until he made his move. Goldie suspected their situation required patience this time, and she drummed her fingers on his chest, taking care to linger over the sensitive patch of feathers in the center.

Scrooge squeezed her shoulder. Gentle, a reminder of passions thoughtfully concealed over the past decades, and a sigh touched his beak, spilling into warm cool air. He gazed at her. Lovingly. Longingly. Time was a spit in Hauhet’s pupil, a feature of her abilities teased and mocked Father Time. Snorting at their last encounter was tempting. He had the privilege of observing their argument at a respectable distance, and said his goodbyes when they had reconciled. His beak corners curved dangerously, and Goldie glanced at him, questions landing on her eyelashes. (Like a doe, he thought, and he indeed smile then. Soft description did not collide suit Goldie O’Gilt, but there was something innocent about her inquisitive stare. Or calculating. Under dark moonlight it was hard to tell.)

“Goldie,” he said, quietly.

“Yes, Scrooge?”

He smirked, their idle chatter at an end, and he leaned forward, pressing his beak to hers. He inhaled smoke and burning embers and sighed when she pushed forward, deepening their kiss. His other arm reached around her, pulling her into him. Her flat palm curled, string his chest feathers along, and without warning, Scrooge felt a sharp, tingling tug that traveled to his spine. His hissed into the kiss, never minding the pain for long, knowing more was coming his way. He pulled her up towards him. She climbed up towards him, to where she straddled him with his hands cradling her face.

“It took you long enough,” she teased.

“Yew wretched woman.”

“I am.”

 _And I’m yours,_ preferring silence, they relied on actions to imprint the truth their hearts refused to speak aloud. She rolled on top of him, keeping her head low as her beak went to work. Freeing her beak from his, she trailed a line of kisses underneath his bill, slowly meeting the slight curve of skin connected to the lower end of his bill that caused a tightening of his grip whenever the lightest pressure came to contact with it. He trembled beneath her spine, gracing her sides with demanding strikes. Satisfaction darkened her expression, and having located the desired spot, she raised her head. He gazed at her, basking in her desires and greed, and conceded for the time to give her control. In the back of his mind, as he enjoyed his administrations, a mild reminder to retake what was his remained nailed.

Goldie was kind, this time. His erection had emerged the second her beak fell to that sweet, sweet curve, and bumped impatiently between her legs. Their shared blanket fell to the floor, seemingly forgotten, and she smirked, running a single finger up its middle. Her reward was a dark hiss, filled with foreboding. As predicted, she chuckled, a deep, throaty chuckle that threatened to undo him in a less than timely manner.

“Get comfortable, Moneybags.” She ran a quick hand through her hair, pushing her voluminous hair back for improved positioning, “I don’t want your back going out on me.”

“Ae’m in perfect -,” he heaved suddenly. She licked the tip, grinning hidden ear to hidden ear. “Yew,” he sputtered, “wretched -,” pre cum drippled at the slim opening, mingling with beaded sweat. Her smirk took on a feline texture, teasing her face into an obscene split. A grotesque thought to some, Scrooge shuddered a tight breath, pushing into a sitting position while her knees met an ice pricked floor. She took his dick in one swallow, never stopping for breath or adjustment. She ended at the hilt, waiting for several seconds before she decided to slide back up, pausing at the edge where his tip began. He gripped a handful of her hair, squeezing until he felt ends pop off her scalp. Gritting his teeth, he pushed her down, hard and unexpectedly, and smirked when she choked on a gasp. Her refusal to jerk free from his grip amused him, and she dragged her smolder around his length, sweetly menacing, a cautious reminder of what was to come. Her teeth scraped on the underside, gently, and he grunted appreciatively. She sucked him vigorously, spitting at exhaustion, and his hold didn’t lessen on her hair, tugging, pulling, closing his eyes in bliss as her tongue curved around him. He jerked forward, shoving himself down her throat, and her shoulders stiffened in response.

“Goldie -,” he rasped. “Ae cannae -,” his control quickly waned. Soon, his mind told him. Very soon.

Stopping wasn’t an option. Her motion were concise, consistent, and feeling him twitch in her mouth, swelling down her throat, she rested a comforting hand on his upper thigh. Scrooge cracked open an eye. _This is fine,_ bold emerald expressed, _I want you to._ He flexed his fingers, releasing his forgivably relenting hold on her hair, and flattened his palm against its crinkly softness. He was climbing a mountain, yes, a mountain. Mount Neverest was cruel and remorseless. Her cold slaps and angry howls was responsible for countless restless dreams, but he relished the touch of her bitter cold, of the adrenaline and mounting rush he felt when he scaled her slopes, if only briefly.

The sensation overpowering him, unthreading every stitch he had needled over the past century, was reminiscent of the moment he found his beloved gold nugget in the steady, foamy stream. When he realized, _this is it, there is no turning back,_ and he raised the Earth’s bounty in triumph.

A weak sigh freed itself. Combing his fingers through her hair, he pushed her head down softly, for this was it, and he lurched forward, raspy breath after raspy breath keeping up with the cum spilling into her mouth. His dick twitch feebly, and she slid away, cum dribbling over her beak. Her smirk winked at him. Leaning backward, she provided a view of her throat throbbing as she swallowed. She wiped the remaining bits with the back of her hand. All he could do was stare blankly at her. Her hand rested on his thigh.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re done,” she gestured to his semi-flaccid dick. “I thought the night was going to be a long one.”

Waiting for his breath to catch up with his lungs and heart, he snapped back to her. “After somethin’ like that yew’ve got some nerve,” returned to default, he gripped her arm and shoved her back into bed. “Ae’ve got time on my side.”

“Do you?”

Scrooge glared.

It had been some time. He admired her prowess, something he intended to keep secret. She knew where to move, what to do, and gave him permission to melt in her grip. He too had acquired skills over the years, and he grabbed one of the pillows, placing it under her back. _This is new,_ she tilted her head. He ignored the question, focusing on spreading her legs and checking her wetness. He heard a startled gasp when his knuckled coaxed her outer lips, hovering for half a second over her clit. Transparent slickness coated his knuckled, and a smirk of his own finally appeared, approving of the display.

“Are you going to make me wait?”

“Wot? And pass up a show of a lifetime?” He licked his knuckle with a hum. “Tastes like...peaches…,” his brow furrowed, “and wot is that other things? Hmm...brimstone?”

“Could be,” she grinned. She kneed him gently to the side, “Now, come on, Scroogey, I’m ready.”

She didn’t have to ask a second time.

His left hand waited on one side. His right extended a finger and entered her pulsing, gently pushing through as her walls sunk around him. Her gasp was satisfying, and when her hips bucked, he pressed his hand down firmly. _Patience,_ he said, _is the key._ Another finger entered her. His thumb brushed fleetingly at her clit, never too much. He applied enough pressure for tingling sensation to race to her nucleus accumbens. Her walls adjusted, clutching and rolling around him, and with deliberate tenderness, he eased his way midway. He continued at this pace, delighting at the sound of her moans and pathetic cries for more. He wasn’t going to go faster. He wasn’t going to go slower. His mood was generous yet greedy.

“Scrooge,” she inhaled sharply. Her fists balled into the hard mattress. “Damn you, hmmm, don’t you -,” her command was decapitated under the spell his fingers weaved. One calculated uplift motion, and her knees buckled against his shoulders, squeezing tightly. Her back, already in an arched position, spiked painfully towards the ceiling. He positioned his fingers at a gentle curve, finding the area that was smaller than a penny. To his relief his search was a brief one.

This is where he made his move. His thumb was kind to her clit, but had suddenly, turned cruel. Additional pressure was applied to where his thumb flattened on her hood, stroking back and forth at speedy intervals. Her walls clenched viciously, smothering his middle two fingers. Gratification roamed at his beak, curving into a smug grin that was more triumphant than aroused.

“Aye, lass?”

“Y-you -,” she gulped.

“Ah now, yew don’t want ta’ be like that.” If moonlight was any brighter, his arrogance would’ve shone like the sun to her. His voice sufficed. “It’d be a shame ta’ stop in the middle of something so…,” he pulled away with an ache in his dick, “...delicate.”

“Don’t.”

“Hm.” Contemplating their options, he drummed his fingers on her inner thigh, “If yew were ta’ ask nicely.”

“You bastard.”

Scrooge scoffed, “That’s not very polite.”

Anger burned a blood coated red, and hesitated. Pride and lust. April’s chill and Scrooge’s warm, steady hand. Decisions. Her own two hands would suffice, if push came to shove, but it didn’t have to. Her chest rose deeply, expelling her indecisiveness. “Please, you son of a gun,” she whined, tiredly. “Please, I need you.”

His smirk infuriated her. Yet, this smirk kindled her passion, and her wet pussy coiled tighter around him, pleading for release.

“That’s better.” His fingers returned to that insidiously sensitive area and curled, “Ae think yer due for a reward.”

He continued at a respectable pace. Not too fast. Not too slow. Her webbed feet curled, hiking up to her waist. She tried to escape his steady motions, but his grip was stronger than it appeared. Closing her eyes, she didn’t try to calm her breath or still her beating heart. There was no point in trying to. The rush claimed her. That definite tightening, that infinite unraveling, and she twisted under his gaze. She convulsed and ached around him, leaking and flowing freely onto his fingers. Suddenly spent, she twitched as he waited for the moment to pass, patting her inner thigh encouragingly.

“Shut up,” she croaked.

“Ae didnae say anything.”

There was light in his smile, and light in hers.

Silence passed. She stared at him, panting. He stared back, sighing.

He was the first to move. Crawling towards her, he grabbed her thigh, lifting it over his shoulder. His tip met her entrance. Their eyes locked, exchanging silent words, and she swallowed thickly, nodding her consent. Scrooge moved. Inch by inch, he returned to this familiar land, and hissed tightly, internally screaming at his inner control to stand strong. Her fingers dug into his shoulder blades, and her breasts met his with every breath. His weight dropped on them knowingly. He loved the feel of the two lumps bound against his.

This was the moment built on aching lust and painful pride. It was the mind numbingly moment their held breaths craved. Every touch, kiss, and longing stare was made in preparation for this very moment, as it had been for seventy years. Neither were willing to waste it. He moved attentively, taking time with every pump and push. _Bless me bagpipes,_ his forehead met hers, _so tight, so lovely, so..._ her beak pressed his. Her fingers roamed to his side, burning into him, and she whispered into his ear, softer than a whisper, “Scrooge, please.”

He obliged. Without releasing all control, his pace quickened. He  smacked sharply into her, pounding her pussy until her moans turned into groans, and her groans strengthened into wordless pants, incoherent in search for appropriate terminology. Nothing could fit this. Goldie did what she could, what came second nature to her in this heated period. She gripped his ass, buried her fingers into his shoulder blade, and cried pleasured rivers into the air.

“Don’t -,”

“Ae won’t.”

“Gonna -,”

“Please, Ae,” he sunk into her ear. “Ae want yew to.”

The bed board slammed angrily against the wall. The sound rattled the entire cabin, stirring the peaceful silence the wilderness had claimed as its own. There was a chance its anger would cultivate and strike them down, but it hadn’t the last time they shared a night together. They doubted it would again; not that this was a concern of theirs as their bodies clung helplessly to each other.

Goldie bit into his neck. Scrooge winced.

There it was, the light at the end of the tunnel. They raced together, towards it, at it, without shoving, without pushing. They were impatient, but their impatience was not aimed at one another.

“Oh, _oh_ , Scrooge,” she buried her face into his neck.

He gasped her name. “ _Goldie_ ,” curving his hand on the back of her head. His other disappeared under her back, “Goldie, my astor.”

Their currents of pleasure met the ravine. Her orgasm had climbed to the top of the mountain and crushed him with its intensity. Her pussy rolled around him, stringing him spurt by spurt until his end was reached. He burst inside her; an explosion of white coating every crevice found. A deep, guttural sigh latched onto his tongue as he tightened his embrace, just as his strength began to wane.

He fell to the side, but his pulse was easily detectable.

“Are you alive, money bags,” she said, after several calming moments.

He didn’t respond immediately. “Y-yeah,” he smacked his lips. “Ae suppose Ae am.”

“Good to know your back is in good shape.” She ran her fingers through his thinning hair, “Would’ve hate to cut this all short.”

Still on his stomach, he peaked through one eye, which was surprisingly not a glare, “Wot are yew doin’ here anyways? Isn’t the saloon waiting for yew?”

Goldie snatched the pillow from underneath her back. “Where’d you learn this trick,” she asked, sticking it behind her back. “You certainly didn’t know that the night I showed you a whole new world.”

“Rain Queen of Balobedu,” Scrooge answered.

Goldie’s eyebrows raised. “The Rain Queen of Balobedu?”

Scrooge nodded.

“Color me impressed,” she said. “That explains the sudden rainfall in the Sahara,” she chuckled, “I’ve heard tales of her harem, you know. Her extravagant parties,” she glanced at him suspiciously, “how many have you attended?”

“None.”

Her beak lifted, unconvinced.

“Wot?” Offended, he turned his head completely to her, “Ae went on a business trip. Ae didnae even get a chance to go into her renowned Sapphire Diamond chambers. We mostly stayed in the guest rooms.”

“Huh.”

“Don’t believe me?”

“I do.” Goldie shrugged, “Would’ve thought she’d let you into her coveted Blood Diamond hall.”

“Wot?” He rested his beak on his chin, in a half-upright position. “She didnae,” disbelief rang, but he knew Goldie wasn’t lying. Lying was needless.

“I guess she liked me more,” she shrugged.

“Ae’ll hold yew ta’ that.” He chuckled. Goldie was persuasive and charismatic. It’d be a labor to refuse her charms completely. Scrooge reached for her waist. With a stubborn roll of her eyes, she snuggled against him, her back to his chest.

“It’s blond-er.” A bright, yellow curl cradled his finger, “Where ‘ave yew been?”

“All over, Moneybags.”

“Hm.” Understanding kept his beak quiet, and he combed through her tresses, marveling at their softness. He secretly marveled at her blatant forwardness in her permission. He was allowed to do this; beholding her hair, her person, in such an intimate manner.

This was temporary.

This wasn’t the time to think about it.

“Goldie?”

Soft snores answered.

He smiled, for there was nothing left for him to do.

He’d keep her close. Yes, he’d keep her close for now, for as long as she allowed.

At dawn, he won’t be angry or disappointed. He’d sigh at the memory. He’d mourn her absence, and leave it all behind.

* * *

“So long White Agony Creek,” he grabbed his backpack. “Ae donnae when our paths will cross again, but it was nice while it lasted.”

She left no note. Scrooge was relieved when he awoke, despite the acute pain lying restlessly in his chest. After eating a warmed bowl of beans, he dressed and packed his things. His memories of this place were pocketed and deposited in a mental vault he’d visit when solitude became too much for him. It was as he was walking down the hill, making his way back to Dawson that he noticed an unusual sight to his right.

The sight was perfectly blended into the landscape. Boulders and other sediment rocks covered it, but there was a tool that had been left behind, a pick ax Scrooge knew he hadn’t used years. In fact, he knew it shouldn’t have been there in the first place. On the day of his departure, he had packed every tool on his back.

“Ae left nothing behind,” he whispered. “Ae packed my pick ax, hammer, pots, pans, all of the essentials,” their rusted bodies tingled his fingertips. “That last day in White Agony Creek Ae…,” his brow furrowed tensely. He made a curve on his path and walked to where the pick ax laied, “Ae made a point to remember something. When Ae decided to return Ae’d,” his heart began to sink. His brisk pace turned into a frenzied sprint, and he skidded to a stop, chest rising in horror at what laid at his feet.

There was the pick ax, which was not his, but that wasn’t the problem. What it was used to pick at was. Scrooge stared at a shallow hole. He guessed at least three good shots at the rock managed to crack it, and usually, this wouldn’t have mattered to him if not for the memory that had finally clawed its way out of his vault.

 _Ae’ll leave it ‘ere for now, until Ae come back. A safe little deposit no one will find,_ no one expect for the other person to roam the dangerous terrain. Seventy years ago he had placed a bushel of gold into the land to protect from potential claim jumpers. For more than a century this bushel sat tucked away beneath dirt and rock, safe and sound until now.

Scrooge’s mouth dropped, and staring dumbly, he noticed the discarded pick ax to the side. A neat, red bow was wrapped around it, and wrapped in that bow was a note. He snatched it off it, ripping the ribbon in two, and began to read.

 _Thanks for the fun, and gold. We should do it again sometime.  
_ _-XoXo, Goldie_

Anger. Betrayal. Confusion. Disappointment. 

The last struck deeper than the rest.

Scrooge folded the letter silently, placing it in his pocket. “Ah, Goldie,” he sighed. “Yew backstabbing wrench,” a dreamy glaze hummed into the early morning glare. He walked ahead, not looking back, and added another memory to the vault. They’d talk about it later. Or not. It didn’t matter all that much to him.

The road back to town was a day's walk. Ravens kept him company.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot say how long this story is going to be. I doubt it'll be more than five chapters, and yes, there will be more smut in the distance.


End file.
